


Hallelujah

by reindeerjumper



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 21:16:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8301406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/pseuds/reindeerjumper
Summary: Mark and his fiancé are looking at churches to wed in, and Bridget is the last person he expects to see there.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a lyrical fic prompt I posted over at tumblr ([Hallelujah by Rufus Wainwright & Choir! Choir! Choir!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AGRfJ6-qkr4)\--I highly recommend listening to this version before reading). This particular fic takes places in the pre-BJB universe, based on what little information the movie gave. Characters obviously aren't mine, but Helen Fielding's, and the lyrics belong to Leonard Cohen. If you'd like to participate, I have a few more prompts available for requests [at this link](http://hisreindeerjumper.tumblr.com/post/151725118585/lyrical-fic-prompt) :)

Mark stood in the chilly December air outside of St. Paul’s Cathedral. He was waiting for Camilla to arrive so they could meet with the vicar to see if it was even plausible for them to be wed there--neither of them were church members, and he certainly wasn't a knight, but she had presented to him a half-baked idea that they could use one of her coworkers’ family lineages to weasel their way into getting a wedding mass. She was, of course, late from her meeting with the florist. Mark had come straight from the Inns of Court in a taxi, but he now regretted rushing over. The snow on the ground was gray from sitting on the sidewalk for a few days, and it was an overcast, blustery day. Mark hunkered down into the wool of his overcoat, nuzzling the lower half of his face into his scarf. 

Few pedestrians were on the sidewalk as the wind whipped down the street. Mark stamped his feet, trying to regain some feeling in his legs since the cold was ripping through the fabric of his trousers.  _ This is bloody ridiculous _ , he thought to himself, looking up at the front of the cathedral. It really was magnificent--the white spires of the West Front reached into the sky, pigeons lazily pecking at crackers on the steps. He glanced down the wide opening of the street, hoping to see Camilla round the corner at any second. Mark looked back up towards the top of the spires, amazed that he had somehow ended up shopping for churches again. 

This time, though, it wasn't Bridget he was looking with. It was Camilla. The two women's tastes varied greatly in size and grandeur...when he and Bridget had looked at churches, she insisted on keeping it small and intimate. They spent ample amount of time in Grafton Underwood looking at the chapel that was nestled in the heart of town, Bridget envisioning the aisles lined with bunches of flowers and periwinkle ribbons. Now, he was in front of Britain’s most prominent cathedral on the precipice of having to barter his life away just for a chance to walk its aisle. Mark squinted up at the edifice, suddenly trying to quell an uneasy, sad feeling in his stomach.  _ Amazing how much can change,  _ he thought with a sigh. He made another quick glance in both directions down the street and didn't see his fiancé. Blowing into his hands, Mark decided that standing outside and potentially freezing wasn't worth the valor. He took the steps by two, up to the front door of the church, and let himself in. 

The smell of incense hit his olfactory senses as he walked through the door. St. Paul’s was just as magnificent inside as it was on the outside. Nobody was in the church, surprisingly, and the silence was haunting. The checkerboard floor spread out underneath Mark’s feet, and the gilded, vaulted ceiling soared overhead. Mark marveled at the length of the aisle, feeling queasy at the idea of having to make the trek down it alone.  _ Awfully large and intimidating _ , he noted, looking around him. Mark took a seat at the back of the church, figuring that when Camilla arrived his presence would be obvious. 

As he looked around him, he started thinking about marrying Camilla. She was a very attractive woman, with dark hair and and a soft Dutch accent that Mark had come to enjoy. She was a fluid moving woman, sure of herself and the things that she wanted. When Bridget had broken it off with Mark, he was sure that he'd never be comfortable enough with another woman to even think of proposing, but Camilla put him at ease. He took reprieve in her confidence and appreciated that he didn't nag him when he wasn't around...mostly from work, but sometimes he just enjoyed being alone.  _ This marriage will do quite nicely. It may not be as passionate as the one I envisioned with Bridget, but I think it's time that passion took a back seat. I'm not getting any younger,  _ Mark thought to himself in a convincing tone. 

_ Then again...I wonder what Bridget  _ **_is_ ** _ up to. I'm sure she's found herself with someone else. It's asinine to think otherwise. With a personality like hers? Ha, I'd be a fool to assume she's still single.  _ Mark inspected his fingernails.  _ Just how long  _ **_has_ ** _ it been since we've seen each other? A year, at least.  _

 

Mark reflected on the last time he had seen Bridget. He had stopped by her flat to retrieve the last of his things, feeling odd taking them back to his house because they had become part of the vignette of her home. A few of his books, a jumper or two, the pair of trainers he kept under her bed if the mood for a run struck him...she had packed them all up neatly in a box, sitting on her kitchen table. He had tried to be cordial, part of him clinging onto the hope that she’d realize what a mistake the whole break up was. Mark hadn’t shaved that morning and wore a casual outfit to her house, hoping that she’d realize that he was willing to change for her, learn how to relax. Bridget’s face, though, didn’t light up when she saw him the way it used to. She had given him a small, sad smile, attempted to make small talk about the weather or some other topic that she would have used on an acquaintance at a party, and then handed him the box of his things. They exchanged an awkward goodbye, and Bridget said, “Take care of yourself, Mark. You deserve to be taken care of,” and then closed the door behind him. 

_ Basically she was telling me that  _ **_she_ ** _ wasn’t going to take care of me anymore _ , he thought bitterly to himself. Mark checked his watch, making a feeble attempt at distracting himself from the memories of Bridget that had suddenly flooded his brain. Camilla still hadn’t made her entrance, and Mark could feel the bristle of annoyance at the back of his thoughts. He let a few more minutes pass before he checked his watch again. Suddenly, the sound of a door opening caught his attention, and he lifted his head to see where it was coming from. At the front of the vestibule, one of the side doors had opened up to reveal a whole gaggle of people flooding into the front of the church. He could see TV cameras and mic booms, people chatting excitedly and loudly. 

 

That’s when he saw her.

 

Somewhere in the middle of the throng of people, he caught sight of a flash of golden hair, and heard a laugh that he could identify in his sleep.  _ Bridget _ . She was carrying a clipboard, her headset on with the mic flipped up, a pair of glasses on the bridge of her nose. Mark couldn’t believe his eyes. He watched her intently, hungrily taking in all of the things he missed about her. She really looked wonderful, giving off a confident, friendly air, even more so than when they had dated. Mark smiled in spite of himself.  _ She always knew how to command the attention of a room _ , he thought as he watched her take her place in front of the crowd. 

“Everyone! Attention, everyone!” he heard her bellow as she stood up on her tiptoes. The group had expanded to at least 200 people, all squeezed together unceremoniously in the front of the church. Those that were standing directly in front of Bridget stopped talking, but it was impossible to hear her at the back of the crowd. He could see her becoming flustered and frustrated as she set the clipboard down beside her feet. “Oy!  _ Oy! Everyone listen! _ ” she yelled out at the top of her lungs, her hands cupped around her mouth. The din turned to a murmur as the group of people turned their attention to her.  _ Typical Bridget _ , Mark thought with a smile. 

Bridget gave a small, awkward bow and yelled out, “Thank you very much! First of all,  _ Sit Up Britain _ is so excited to be working with you all on such an interesting event. I know this is only a fraction of your group, but you’ve all been working incredibly hard, so obviously we’ll need everyone’s cooperation for this to run smoothly. This is Miranda”--Bridget gestured to the dark haired 30-something reporter next to her--”and she’ll be the one covering your story. So what we’ll need now from all of you is to get into your designated sections--soprano, alto, all of that good stuff--and then we’ll get started!”

The group began to disperse themselves onto the risers that were set up at the front of the church, packing in like sardines. Mark had completely lost himself in watching Bridget. He had always loved watching her work--whether it was during one of her infamous public speaking engagements or rewinding one of her reports he had recorded while at court, she always managed to completely enrapture him. He watched her now, talking with Miranda and a camera man, gesturing with confidence and authority, clearly giving orders and running them through the shot list. 

As he watched her, he felt a tap on his shoulder. A blush flooded his cheeks as he turned around. He was expecting to see Camilla, but it wasn’t Camilla. An elderly woman of short stature was standing behind him, a look of disapproval on her face. “Sir,” she began as she crossed her arms across her chest, “what are you doing in here?” He swiveled his body around to look at her more directly and said, “Beg pardon?” The woman nodded towards the front of the church where Bridget was orchestrating her crew and said, “This here’s a private event.  _ Sit Up Britain _ is filming for a special they’re producing…no civilians are allowed in the church while filming is going on.” Mark glanced back to the front of the church, realization dawning on him.  _ No wonder I was the only one in here _ , he thought to himself.

 

“My apologies. I didn’t see any signs saying I wasn’t allowed in, and the door was open. I have a meeting with the vicar tonight...my fiance and I planning to have our wedding here, and I arrived much earlier than she did. I just came in to warm up.”

 

“Well, what time is your meeting?”

 

“In about 15 minutes, or I suppose whenever my fiance shows up.”

 

The woman looked at him thoughtfully, then glanced back up at the front. She gave him a wink as her body language loosened. “I won’t tell no one if you don’t,” she said. “Thank you,” Mark replied with a smile, and the woman walked away. He turned back to face the front of the church. Bridget still hadn’t noticed him. She was now standing off to the side, talking to another assistant as the camera crew centered themselves on the assembled choir. In the center of the choir was a man with a guitar, and next to him was the choirmaster. The chatter from the two sides of risers quieted as the two men took their stance, the choirmaster’s hands in the air while the guitar player strummed a few chords. 

There was a chilling silence before the entire cathedral filled with the beginning chords from the guitar. Mark faintly recognized the notes, but couldn’t place where he knew it from. The two sides of the chorus started to harmonize, and the sound inside of the cathedral swelled. It was hard to not be overcome with emotion at the sound. Mark allowed himself to look in Bridget’s direction--her clipboard was clasped to her chest, and her mouth was slack, but in that moment he couldn’t help thinking how beautiful she looked. He immediately felt awkward about having the thought, and dropped his eyes to the floor.  _ That’s behind me now _ , he tried to convince himself.

The choir had begun singing the lyrics, and they automatically fit together in Mark’s brain like puzzle pieces. They were singing Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”, but in the most haunting rendition he had ever heard. The echo off of the ceiling of the cathedral bounced back to him with eerie resonance, and their voices ebbed and swelled with each chord. He looked back at Bridget, unable to keep his eyes off of her.  _ What happened to us _ , he thought as the singing sent chills through his body.  _ What could I have done differently? _ He noticed that he was absently rubbing the blank space on his left ring finger as his eyes stayed glued to Bridget’s reverent profile. Even from the back of the church, he could see that she was clearly moved by the song...he knew that look on her face better than he cared to admit. 

A memory floated back to him as he stared at her--they had slipped out of a party at her parents’ house one summer evening; she had grabbed his hand in the kitchen where he had gone to refresh his drink. Without a word, she led him outside, and he had followed her without an ounce of restraint. He didn’t need an explanation to follow her. In that moment, he would have followed her to the ends of the earth. Bridget held his hand in hers as she silently led him out to her parents’ garden. The sound of crickets was all that Mark had been able to hear. They got to the garden wall, where Bridget stopped and turned around to face him. The glow from the moon had been so bright--it completely illuminated the space around them, highlighting Bridget’s collarbone and high cheekbones and it created a halo of light as it shone through her hair. “Why did you bring me out here Bridget?” he had murmured. She had smiled at him, a small, knowing smile, and said, “The moon. Isn’t it magnificent?” Her face was flushed from the wine she had drank, and her eyes sparkled, even in the darkness. 

Mark distinctly remembered reaching out to run the pad of his thumb across her cheek, and he could feel her nuzzling against him, even now as he sat in the cathedral. He flexed his hand as he thought about her face in the moonlight, with the same expression she had now. He felt a knot in his stomach as he missed her wide-eyed innocence. She found such joy in the simplest things, making the most of every situation. He didn’t want to admit it before now, but he missed her so much that it ached inside of him.

Mark was deeply lost in his thoughts, so much so that he almost didn't notice Camilla taking a seat next to him. He could feel the cold from outside emanating off of her coat as she unwrapped the scarf that was around her neck. “Sorry I'm late,” she murmured, leaning in to peck him on the cheek. Mark tore his eyes from Bridget with a, “Hmm?” Camilla looked at him and said, “I said I’m sorry for being late. I couldn't get a taxi.” Mark nodded absentmindedly and then placed a finger over his lips with a nod towards the choir. She glanced in the direction he had nodded, and settled herself into her seat…her body language made it evident that she wasn't happy. 

Even with Camilla next to him, Mark couldn't take his eyes off of Bridget. Luckily she was where the choir was, so it wasn't obvious where his attention lie.  _ God I miss her, _ he thought to himself. The choir was still singing, their voices heaving and swelling in the church. The sound echoed off the ceiling and bounced off the walls. Mark could feel the sound in his bones. His hands were damp, and he had a lump in his throat.  _ You're a bloody idiot, Mark. You lost the best thing you ever had. _

Mark suddenly felt Camilla’s hand in his. She wanted attention, and Mark knew it. “Come on. We have to meet with the vicar,” she whispered, tugging on his hand. Mark looked back to the front of the church and then nodded. “Yes, fine.” He stood up, trying to be as discreet as possible so that Bridget wouldn't notice him. Camilla was already out in the aisle waiting for him. 

_ But baby I've been here before, _

_  I've seen this room and I've walked this floor.  _

_ You know, I used to live alone before I knew ya... _

Mark glanced towards Bridget. She hadn't noticed him. She was still completely enraptured by the sounds of the voices coming from the choir. He let out a half hearted sigh and followed Camilla to the back of the church where the vicar’s office was. As he held the door for Camilla to enter into the office, he looked towards Bridget one more time, trying to remember the details of the moment.  _ Who knows when I'll see her again,  _ he thought as Camilla passed by him. Camilla stopped halfway through the doorway, looked at Mark, and said, “Come, darling. We're already late.”

_ I've seen your flag on the marble arch,  _

_ And love is not a victory march, _

_ It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah… _

 

Mark looked at Camilla and said, “Yes, dear. Coming.” Without looking behind him, Mark followed his fiancé over the threshold and out of the church. 

 

__


End file.
